I had just turned off the stove when she appeared from behind the door, still wearing my oversized hoodie that hung loosely on her body—the sleeves hiding the fingers I had held all night. Her hair was messy, her eyes still drowsy, and her steps lazy but I knew all of it. They were remnants of a long night. A night that left us almost sleepless. A night that reminded me again, in the quietest and fullest way, that she was mine and I was hers.

My body still felt heavy, warm in the places she had touched repeatedly throughout the night. Some of her traces remained on my skin, faint, but real. And like a rhythm already etched into habit, I woke up first, then came down to the kitchen with a head full of her image, and a chest that—somehow—felt more intact than the day before.

I stood in front of the stove wearing only pajama pants and skin that still held the warmth of the night. Bare-chested, I cooked breakfast for us. Simple fried rice, eggs, and a bit of sesame oil, the aroma of which now lingered in the air. These hands may not be good with words, but they know how to care for her. How to keep her.

My hands were busy placing two plates on the small dining table in the kitchen corner. A dim pendant lamp hung above us, warm enough to make the room feel familiar. I glanced at her for a moment, then gave a small smile. There was satisfaction in the silence—seeing her come in just as everything was ready, still wearing something of mine, still carrying the remnants of our night.

“It’s ready to eat,” I muttered while grabbing glasses and pouring cold water.

She sat down without many words, her legs tucked up on the chair like the house was completely hers and indeed, it was. I placed her plate in front of her, then sat across from her. Just as I began scooping rice into my bowl, the sentence rolled from her lips. Simple. Seemingly meaningless. But it was precisely in that simplicity that it hit—quietly, but straight to the chest.

“Thank you, my friend.”

My hand froze mid-air. The spoon was still suspended, half the rice about to fall from its edge. I turned my head slowly. It took a few seconds for me to process whether I really heard what I thought I just heard.

“What did you just say?” My tone hardly changed, but it was a bit deeper. Soft and restrained. There was a subtle tension in it, not anger—not yet. But a tightness that hung in the air.

She didn’t answer. But from the way she busied herself spooning vegetables and that small smile creeping at the corner of her lips, I knew exactly: she did it on purpose. I leaned back in my chair, slowly placing my spoon on the edge of the bowl. My left hand rose, rubbing the back of my neck that suddenly felt warmer than usual. My eyes were still on her, fixed.

“You know I can take a lot but I’m not your friend. Don’t ever call me that.”

I looked down for a moment, inhaling through my nose. Deep enough, clear enough, but I held it in my chest. My hand reached for a tissue on the table edge, just to create distance between me and the words that had just knocked me down without warning.

I raised my face again, slowly. There was a brief pause before my eyes met hers—not with anger, but with a sharp and steady gaze. A look that didn’t need to rise in tone, but was strong enough to draw the line. That gaze wasn’t mere protest. It was an affirmation that I’m not someone to be lumped in with the rest. That there’s a place I fought for in her life, and that place isn’t something called ‘friend.’

“I’m your husband. I’m yours. And you are mine. Period.” I emphasized the words slowly, one by one, making sure each of them landed. Undeniably. My fingers brushed the dew-wet side of the glass. Its coldness didn’t help much. But it gave a tangible reminder that I was still sitting here, with her, even though the space between us suddenly felt distant.

Silence again but not an empty one. A full silence. I leaned into the backrest, letting my body ease. My gaze stayed on her, no longer demanding. Now, only waiting.

“Take back what you said and say what you were supposed to.”